


Horses, Insults, Asters and Beds

by hato



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Romantic Friendship, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hato/pseuds/hato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little moments between a Roman and a Briton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Horses, Insults, Asters and Beds

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Characters belong to Rosemary Sutcliffe.  
>  **A/N:** Posted on eljay quite some time ago, as four separate pieces. I’ve put them together here, because they were essentially tied together in my head canon, lol.   
> **Story Notes:** Gliondar is Irish for _Joy_ (closest I could come to Esca's language) and Drusus is Greek for _Strong_ ( Marcus would speak Latin, but the Empire is large, so Marcus has a Greek horse with a Greek name that he speaks to in the bit of Greek he's learned).

**Race**  
  
Esca knows, in this moment, that he loves this Roman.  
  
He rides beside Marcus, horses given their heads to race across the wide open space. Grassy hills, purple heather, large gray stones passing by in a barely noticed blur. A small stream jumped with barely a break in stride. Esca grips with his thighs, feeling his mount's heaving sides through the blanket. The reins lay slack against the gray's neck. The coarse mane whips across Esca's face as sharply as the wind. He strains forward, urging Gliondar forward, faster, farther.  
  
Neck and neck they ride and Esca glances over at his friend.  
  
Marcus grips the front pommel of his saddle, his injured leg pressing not too tightly against the simple rug beneath the leather. Drusus senses his master's weakness and keeps his gait smooth, even, flawless. The horse's black mane is cropped close, in the cavalry style, vibrating with every strike of the muddy hooves.  
  
Marcus leans forward, pressed against the sleek, sweaty neck.  
  
His eyes are bright. Determined. Exhilarated.  
  
Esca forgets the cold air whipping through his hair, the cold air filling his nose and rushing across his skin. He forgets the race.  
  
Marcus pulls ahead with a few encouraging words in Greek to his horse; long black tail streaming behind. A joyful grin on his sunburnt face.  
  
Esca watches him, watches Drusus pound across the heather with Marcus clinging to his back like a stubborn burr.  
  
Marcus' laughter carries on the wind.  
  
Esca's heart beats much too fast.  
  
And he knows, in this moment, that it beats for Marcus.  
  


* * *

  
 **Lap Dog**  
  
It was another of those dreadful functions where Marcus Flavius Aquila found the elegant material of his toga more suffocating with the passing of each hour. Five hours, to be exact,  filled with superficial conversation and expensive wine. And the constant hovering of Esca, who was  bursting with smart retorts and scathing commentary. More than once, Marcus had tugged at the neckline of his clothing, elbow jabbing Esca in the shoulder in way of warning.   It would not do to offend the hosts, or other guests, and sully the family name even further.  And he would never hear the end of it from his uncle.   
  
By the end of the evening, his headache had reached splitting proportions without the assistance of alcohol.  He’d received several questioning glances at his refusal of the wine that his host was so proud to be serving. Imported from one of hundreds of vineyards owned in the south,  special manure used in the soil, slaves singing epic ballads to the grapes each morning... It had smelled much too sweet to the retired solider, sure to cause an uneasy stomach combined with his regimen of bitter herbs the surgeon still had him swilling each noon meal.  Marcus had smiled and politely declined under his uncle’s watchful eye, with Esca’s smirk barely hidden behind the water jug.   
  
But now, he was free of those damned socialites and the ladder climbing politicians.    
  
The elder Aquila and his man, Stephanos, rode slightly ahead of Marcus and Esca.  A chestnut mare nearly as long in tooth as its rider and a middle aged, stout pony the color of wet ashes. Both plodded along at a sedate pace, their riders enjoying the chill air of an early fall.  Occasionally the older horses would turn to look at their younger counterparts snorting and tossing their heads against the loose reins;  an equine protest mirrored by the fidgets of Marcus and Esca.  Marcus wanted to be rid of his formal toga and he was certain Esca wanted to be rid of his daily duties.  The trip home could not end quickly enough.  
  
Stephanos tossed a look over his shoulder as he continued to laugh at his master’s mocking of a visiting governor.  Aquila the Younger smiled and raised his brows in an open,  questioning expression simply because he knew it would aggravate the old man.  He laughed quietly when Stephanos thinned his lips and turned his attention back to the road.    
  
Marcus made sure to keep smiling, despite his headache, each time the men or their steeds turned a watchful glance back.  Smiling actually seemed to be working with the clear air to lessen the throb in his temples. If it was not completely gone by the time they reached the villa, Marcus decided he would very politely beg Esca to rub his forehead.  He could - and would- order his body slave to do so, but Marcus had learned that if Esca was ordered to do things while in a ‘mood’ it made for a very unpleasant atmosphere.  Being given a massage by a sourpuss tended to counteract the therapeutic benefits..   
  
And he did not need to look at Esca to know the man was in a ‘mood’. The tension was subtle, but undeniable.  It happened whenever Esca- who was quite hard to ruffle most times-  was required to bite his tongue more than usual; a literal thing, Marcus had discovered, after catching him spitting blood outside the villa of a highly demanding prick of a neighbor hosting his daughter’s marriage feast.   Marcus had made sure Stephanos had given Esca some salt water and herbs for the self inflicted injury.   
  
Esca had not been spewing crimson from his mouth. Yet. However, Marcus knew it had been a trying evening for the man, between the acerbic Romans and their sabotaging servants.  That was something else he had discovered in his association with Esca; slaves were sometimes crueler than their masters, misdirecting Esca, or hiding a requested drink, or even tripping him as he served at Marcus’ side.   At their own villa, few gave Esca more than a passing thought other than the two masters and the head servant.  He was not one of them, his heritage as a freeborn marking him an outsider, but neither was he some threat to their daily existence.    
  
He sat on the dappled horse at Marcus’ side, the tightness in his jaw apparent even in the twilight, the strong profile of his nose tilted down slightly, preoccupied gaze aimed at the horse’s ears.  Esca had been silent since taking to the road and Marcus had not attempted to interrupt his inner thoughts.  It was an almost companionable silence, broken only by the noises of their mounts and the faint conversation of the elders.     
  
A deep breath. The air was heavy with the scent of ripe wheat fields and impending rain. Fresh. Clean. Another inhale, more of the tightness leaking from his shoulders, the injured muscles in his leg twitching less.  Freedom from that stifling squabble of humanity. Freedom...  Marcus found himself alternating between looking at his horse’s bobbing head and taking small, casual glances at Esca.   Did he feel the same, breathing in the same air?  Relief at escaping the jibes and assaults? Marcus assumed he did not, for surely Esca would at least crack a grin at his uncle’s recitation of a popular bawdy rhyme.   
  
Did he ever feel freedom anymore, in any small amount?  Marcus sighed and put the thought from his mind. It wouldn’t do any good to dwell on it.   
  
The villa appeared over the horizon, lamps blazing in the front windows, wisps of smoke issuing from various chimneys. The quartet was greeted at the front entrance by the groomsman and his son, the teenage apprentice carefully slipping behind his father and reaching for Marcus’ reins.  Esca dismounted easily and stood at the larger horse’s side, waiting to steady his master should the injured leg give way when his feet touched the ground.  Marcus grimaced, both at the twinge in his leg when he raised it over the saddle, and for the simple fact that Esca felt he needed to be there to catch him like some doddering invalid.  Gritting his teeth -which made his head ache worse- Marcus landed firmly on the ground, his hands wrapped in the coarse mane at the horse’s withers.  He was aware of Esca watching him, wary of his footing.  Marcus waited a split second before letting go of the horse and stepping away, injured leg first.  He caught Esca’s gaze with his own defiant one. _I can still walk, you know._   
  
Esca merely shrugged, his eyes just as shuttered off as before.  Marcus hated when Esca turned inward that way, the deep introspection, thoughts hidden completely by the blue eyes that seemed grayer with the process.  Was he thinking of home? Or perhaps his family? Or was he plotting to set the whole house afire after slitting Marcus’ throat and escaping into the night?   
  
Marcus could never tell. In the beginning of their acquaintance, that had bothered him immensely, causing several sleepless nights as he waited for the expected attack from the younger man. As the months went by, the open hostility lessened and the quiet moments when Esca mentally holed himself up no longer made Marcus so wary.   
  
He still didn’t like it, but he knew Esca would eventually either tell him what was wrong or shed the storm cloud on his own and return to his usual smirking self.   
  
Stephanos went ahead of Uncle Aquila, quietly giving orders to the house slaves and making sure all was ready for his master to retire.   Esca did the same after handing off his own horse’s reins to the stable boy.  Marcus held the slight limp at bay as they walked through the halls to his own set of rooms near the rear courtyard.  The lamps gave Esca’s ash blond hair a golden shine, a striking contrast to the near black as he passed through the pools of light and the shadowy patches in between.  Marcus kept his eyes on the change of color until they reached his bedroom and the flickering firelight on the hearth.     
  
He sat in a chair after Esca took his cloak, eyelids heavy, and began to work on his sandals. Esca silently dropped to his knees and knocked Marcus’ hands away to finish the work.  Marcus frowned and retaliated with the same gesture. “ I can do this. Make the bed, and put another rug on your pallet. “   
  
He shivered, sitting too far away from the fire to be protected from the brisk wind seeping in through the cracks.   It would take all winter for him to build his weight back up, to replace the muscle mass lost during his recuperation. Marcus was much too cold these days.  Esca most likely did not need an extra rug, seeing as he was born and raised in this land of eternal chilly damp, but Marcus would not be able to rest unless he was sure the man would not be cold in the night.  He took great care of the men in his service, whether soldier or slave. A trait he had inherited from his father, or so he’d been told.   
  
Esca’s only protest was a small exhale through his nose, a sign of pent up frustration.  It reminded Marcus of the horses earlier, wanting to release all their power and energy, but held back by the elders’ slow pace.   Esca gracefully rose to his feet and unfastened his cloak before laying it aside to do his master’s bidding.   
  
Marcus removed his sandals, dropping them over the side of the chair. He would make sure Esca left them there so he could put them on himself in the morning.  The toga, on the other hand... Sighing in a similar fashion to the younger man, Marcus stood and debated whether or not to have Esca help him disrobe.  He couldn’t do it himself without damaging the expensive garments. Or at least mussing them to the point they would have to be cleaned instead of simply being hung out to freshen and then folded back into his trunk.   
  
It simply wasn’t worth the aggravation.  Marcus waited quietly until the bed was prepared and a rug tossed across the straw pallet nearby. “ Esca, would you help me out of this damn thing?”  He gestured toward his clothing, specifically the complicated brooch and fold combination at his shoulder.    
  
Turning at his voice, Esca strode across the room and stood in front of his master.  His well shaped hands quickly went to work on the pins keeping the deceptively simple looking knot in place, his blue-gray eyes steady and flat as they locked onto the fabric and metal between his fingers.  Marcus alternated between staring at the ceiling and gazing at the pensive face close to his own.   
  
He shouldn’t say anything.  He should leave Esca alone to his thoughts and in the morning the young man would, most likely, be in a better mood.  Marcus repeated the logic until he was over it and opened his mouth. “ So... is there something specific on your mind, or simply a general dissatisfaction with the entire evening? “  Marcus turned green eyes toward Esca’s down-turned mouth. “ Because I am in complete agreement on the latter.”  His own face remained open and, he hoped, sympathetic.   
  
There was a pause before Esca replied, his focus seemingly fixated on his task and not the question. Another short exhale through his nose, nostrils flaring. “  The former,” he spoke quietly in his accented voice.  The brooch came away and the many folds of fabric fell loose. Esca caught them expertly and draped them over his arm.  “ And the latter. “  Their eyes met, locked, an exchange of glances.  Something seemed to soften in the blue eyes, then Esca was turning on heel with the expensive material in hand, hanging it over the rod near the courtyard door to air out.  He was quick to pull off his own olive colored tunic and drape it over the chair near his mat.  Esca placed his sandals underneath the chair, leaving him only his short breeches to be removed before retiring.   
  
Marcus frowned. Well, he’d gotten more than he’d thought out of the man.  With the outer sash gone, the simple toga still hanging on his body was easy to strip off.  He was careful of the gold stitching around the neckline as he pulled it over his head and offered it to Esca when he returned.  The headache was almost entirely gone. Marcus swiped a hand through his hair and shuffled to the bed to sit. He continued to casually study Esca across the room as the man straightened the clothing on the rod, stoked the coals in the brazier, and made ready for the night.    
  
“ They called me a dog,” Esca spoke without looking back, busy selecting an outfit for the next day to lay out on the trunk.  His tone was placid, mistaken for anything from resignation to indifference.  Marcus understood it as well contained frustration.  Esca’s pride was great, his ability to control it was greater, but he still had his limits.  “ The servants, mostly.  Though I’m certain their masters are of the same opinion.“    
  
Marcus stared at his armor displayed on the far wall. “ You didn’t seem to mind being called a catamite last week at the market. In the presence of at least a dozen high ranking Roman citizens.”  That particular incident still caused him to shake in anger (or maybe the cold was affecting him already) and he was glad that he’d insulted the female offender to the point that even his uncle’s effusive apologies were not enough to put him back in her good graces.  One less dinner party to attend, as far as Marcus was concerned.   The throb in his head sprang back to life.  “ Meddling bitch,” he cursed the woman and the renewed pain in his temples.  A shiver swept through his body, prickling his skin.  The rugs were right there, but Marcus refused to give in to the weather just yet.    
  
“ I should have been more specific.”  Esca came back to the bed, the closed expression eroded a bit. It faded even more as he took in Marcus’ tense frame.  He did not continue his reply immediately, instead taking his time to throw a rug over the large figure and throwing another folded rug on the floor.  Esca knelt on the rough material, body wedged between Marcus’ knees. The blue-black ink on his arm flexed with the muscles underneath as he raised both hands up.  His callused thumbs settled in the hollows on either side of Marcus’ forehead.   
  
Marcus stared at the face looking up into his for only a few seconds before letting his lids droop and close at the gentle pressure rubbing against his temples.  He braced his forearms against his thighs. The rug around his shoulders shifted as he slumped forward.  Esca adjusted, his hands moving with Marcus’ head, only a small pause in the soothing, imperfect rhythm.     
  
When Esca spoke again, only his soft tone kept Marcus from startling in the quiet and tensing up again.  It was a short lived peace, however, when he heard Esca’s next words. “ They called me a lap dog.”   
  
His hand was up before he was aware of moving it.  Marcus curled thick fingers around Esca’s wrist, stilling the motions, the rug falling from one shoulder to pool around his hip and thigh. All the tension from before instantly returned, swelled around him, then broke as he released a deep sigh.  “ Apologies,” he whispered, letting go of the man’s arm.  Marcus closed his eyes again, slouching in place, breathing a bit heavily through his nose.   
  
A lap dog. So many insinuations with the simple term. Dogs had their uses. Hunting dogs, guard dogs, fighting dogs.  Even stray dogs had a sense of dignity and freedom. By the gods, even catamites had their purpose. But lap dogs were useless. Pretty pieces of fluff to sit at their owner’s feet to be hand-fed and doted upon.   
  
Not only did it insult Esca, as a young, able bodied freeborn man, but it insulted Marcus, as well. For lap dogs required a master. Or mistress.  If Esca was a lap dog, then Marcus was the effeminate cripple who needed to wile away his idle hours pampering a spoiled canine.   
  
Weak, useless, purposeless. Not deserving of the most basic of respect.   
  
Less than men.   
  
Esca’s fingers continued their small circles above Marcus’ ears as he silently brooded over the slander.  Marcus cracked open his eyes, gaze still down cast.  He caught sight of the smooth edge of the scar above his knee and moved the rug to cover it.  Marcus raised his head just enough to look the other man in the eyes. He moved his hand and gently rested it on the one at his temple. “ Thank you, Esca. We should both sleep.”  An easy dismissal, soft spoken and weary.   
  
Esca’s roughened hands dropped away from his skin, now warm and tingling from the stimulation. Marcus reached out and placed his own hand on a bare shoulder, squeezing firmly, then bringing it back to the rugs on the bed.  Esca stood on the edge of his periphery and moved toward the brazier to bank the embers.  He did not pull the bed clothes back to cover Marcus as he usually did and the older man was thankful for his intuition.  Marcus did not want to be waited upon anymore tonight.   
  
Stretching out on his back, Marcus slid beneath the rugs and furs, pulling them up to his shoulders. He stared at the deeply shadowed ceiling and listened to the younger man moving around nearby.  There was a long pause in the noises, then the soft slide of skin along fabric and the crackle of the straw mat.  A heaviness hung in the atmosphere and Marcus realized that this was the exact reason Esca had been slow to share the insult.   
  
Marcus frowned in the darkness, the brief conversation playing back in his head.  He wondered which servants, which guests, which people he would need to avoid for the sake of his uncle’s reputation.  Lap dog. A gods damned lap dog and his besotted master, the implications...   
  
The words sparked an image , sudden and ridiculous amidst his indignant fury.  Himself, with curled hair and bejeweled fingers, lounging on a sumptuous couch like the frescoes of Bacchus.  At his side knelt Esca, a golden collar about his neck, obedient head in his master’s lap.   
  
As quickly as it had come, the anger was swept away by an amused snort. It was foolish of him to give so much weight to the opinion of some stuck up gentry and their slaves; to allow their petty gossip and political wrangling to impede on a good night’s sleep. His and Esca’s.   
  
” You know,” Marcus began, his voice barely louder than the hiss of the fire, “ a collar would suit you, Esca. With some leather work and a tag of gold.”   He chuckled quietly and held his breath, hoping the younger man would accept the attempt at levity and not take it as further injury to his pride.   
  
Several moments passed before Marcus heard a faint sound like laughter from the corner, followed by, “ Piss off, old man. ”  There was a shuffling of rugs as Esca turned over.  
  
Grinning, Marcus closed his eyes and gave in to peaceful sleep.   
  


* * *

  
**Devotion in a Meadow**  
  
It was an impulse. A ridiculous, silly impulse.  
  
Marcus reached out and plucked several stems of the wildflowers. Pale blue asters, scattered across the meadow where he and Esca were resting after a hunt. The heads seemed rather small in his large hand.  
  
He studied the flowers for a moment, simply enjoying the way the petals shook slightly in the wind. Marcus handed them to Esca, the younger man sitting close at hand whittling away at a piece of soft wood.  
  
Asters had many meanings. Like devotion. Marcus wondered if that held true in Britain, as he gazed expectantly at his friend.  
  
Esca accepted the bundle of stems with the hand that still held his knife. Clear gray eyes studied the flowers, just as green eyes had only moments before.  
  
There was a long pause and Marcus thought, perhaps, asters had some other meaning for the Britons.  
  
Then Esca was slowly pulling a single, pale bloom from the bunch held tightly in his fingers and handing it back to Marcus; the same expectancy in his expression.  
  
Perhaps, asters had the same meaning, after all.   
  


* * *

  
**Nest**  
  
Esca likes his small cot.  
  
He knows Marcus is not very fond of the narrow bed.  
  
It is amusing to Esca to feel Marcus crawl into his cot behind him, bodies flush. And within moments, Marcus will grunt and shift. Esca smiles, pretending not to notice as he reaches back to touch a sharp hip. His friend will push a hand over his waist and pull him closer. Another shift, another pained grunt as the sharp edge of the bed presses against Marcus' side. The cot is not made for two.  
  
Esca will chuckle.  
  
Marcus will curse softly.  
  
Then he will throw the covers onto the floor in front of the brazier. A disturbed Cub rises to his feet, sleepy and confused at the tumble of rugs and humans invading his space. Esca will pet the wolf's head before his hands are captured by Marcus and pinned to the floor.  
  
Trapped beneath the heated body. Enough room to stretch and arch and writhe in perfect comfort.  
  
Room to sprawl bonelessly once sated.  
  
Esca will laugh softly when Cub hops onto his abandoned bed, taking the warm spot left behind. Marcus will smile down at him and kiss the corner of his mouth.  
  
Esca likes his small cot.  
  
But he loves this sloppy nest of furs and rugs even more.   
  
**the end**

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to everyone who reads, kudos', and comments!!!


End file.
